


Extraneous

by appleschnapple



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 18,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleschnapple/pseuds/appleschnapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For everything too small to be standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Companion Guide to Hawkes

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme prompt! A manual for proper Hawke maintenance, as written by Varric.

When you first come across your Hawke, you may feel a variety of emotions. (Most frequent are lust, irritation and a wild desire to share intimate details with your Hawke.) This is normal, and should not be cause for concern. (Note: if your Hawke is of the grouchy persuasion, be mindful that your Hawke may resort to violence or cussing, and should not be mixed with polite company unless you want to piss them off. ~~It _is_ pretty funny.~~ ) To establish your relationship with Hawke, you must first offer them a challenge they must complete to win your favour – without this, your Hawke may become confused and not realise he or she now belongs to you. For best results, try to pick something that involves murder. Hawkes of all persuasions are talented at killing, though some may act happier about this than others. And hey, if you've got a rival you want to be dealt with, why not kill two birds with one stone? Other means for establishing a relationship are available, but not nearly so fun. (Also, at some point they'll probably involve killing someone.)

\--- 

Once you've claimed a Hawke as your own, you need to take care of them. Hawkes are needy creatures, and must be fed and watered daily. They're also very social, and are wont to wither away and die if you don't pretend they are the centre of your universe at all times. At this point, you may wish to consider sharing your Hawke with others. Don't worry, your Hawke will recognise that you are the true owner, and will treat you accordingly. (It helps to be a charming, handsome and roguish dwarf, but I appreciate that this isn't always a possibility.)

\--- 

You may come to notice that your Hawke is developing romantic interest in another – this is normal, and should be cautiously encouraged. While ~~most~~ all Hawkes have... interesting taste in their partners, your Hawke may grow bitter and resentful if you call them out on this, and will only be sated when you buy them a pint. This does not, however, mean you should not become involved in your Hawke's personal life. Why not write stories involving your Hawke and their chosen beau? It not only shows you support the happy couple, but if you slightly change the names for legal reasons you can even make a profit off of their burgeoning romance. (For example: the tumultuous and overblown romance between Falcon and Janders proved a roaring success amongst Hightown's nobles, though there was some debate over whether Falcon was not better suited to the dashing pirate captain Bella. While some were offended by the work, a surprising number of people praised the story for daringly having the principle couple be two apostates.)

In rare but entirely understandable circumstances, your Hawke may show interest in _you_. Try to brush them off gently, possibly while making loving reference to your anthropomorphic weapon. They'll get the hint.

\--- 

No matter how darling and precious your Hawke may be, it is important to remember that life isn't always sunshine and daisies. Hawkes have a distressing habit of losing family members at every turn, and it is important that you show your sympathy in one brief conversation and then never mention the loss ever again. Your Hawke will probably get over it, or else swallow their grief and push it to the back of their mind in order to complete their tasks. As any owner worth their salt knows, suppressing your emotions is the healthiest way of dealing with it.

On rare occasions, your Hawke will have family members that don't die, but something else horrible will probably have happened to them. In this instance, it will probably be your fault. Again, make a passing line of condolences and all will be well once more.

In the case of romance related trauma (e.g. love interest running away, being forced to kill their entire clan or a light spot of iconoclasm), stay out at all costs. Your Hawke may start crying, and you will feel really, really uncomfortable.


	2. Don't be so blind

She's going to be all right.

There's nothing in her mirror, just cracks and a kind of emptiness that draws her in, leaves in fascinated and fearful in equal measure. She asks Aveline about _her_ mirror, about what she sees in there, and she's sincere in her desire to borrow it.

She needs to be reminded who she's going to see looking back at her. The puddles left after a heavy rain are too murky to see her reflection, the sea by the docks never calm, and her attempts at staring into fragments of broken glass just leave cuts on already scarred palms.

She considers borrowing Sebastian for a moment or two and staring into his armour, but then she hears him talking to Fenris about _telling the templars_.

She stays as far away from Sebastian as possible after that.

Sometimes she thinks she hears whispers from the mirror, and it leaves her heart racing because she believes; with a fervency that would make Anders _proud_ if he believed in her cause the way he believed in his own, that she's hearing the Elvhenan and it's all going to be worth it. Other times she just wonders if she's going mad.

But she needs to speak with the demon. The spirit. Different names, same danger - to corrupt and destroy everything it touches, and she's scared _that's_ what she's going to see in her reflection.

No, she thinks. She's going to be all right. She has to be.


	3. Kirkwall Superheroes

"If you could have any magical power, what would it be?" Isabela asked, swinging one arm out wildly across the table and nearly sticking her finger up Fenris' nose in the process. It's the sort of question that only makes sense when the room is on the verge of spinning and your head feels strangely detached from your shoulders. Even so, there was something off about it to Hawke, even if it took her a few moments longer than it really should have done.

"I'm a mage," she said cautiously, as though expecting the world to rise up and tell her no, she'd been imagining it all these years - this could very well be the case, judging by the way Isabela was staring at her like she'd ruined every Satinalia _ever_.

"All right.." Isabela narrowed her eyes in apparent thought - though it may have just been her own attempts to stop the room from spinning. "But there's... laws of magic or something, isn't there?"

"Yes..." Even if Kirkwall's maleficarum enjoyed going "Haha, no, they're only guidelines."

"Then pretend there isn't!" Isabela grinned, and arched her fingers together. (This took several attempts; one hand kept missing the other entirely.) "I'd have the power to undress people with my eyes."

"That does sound fun." Hawke tilted her head to one side, nearly falling off her seat as she did so. "But I think I'd like to read minds. Without the whole blood magic thing," she added quickly, because she was too drunk to handle _that_ sort of conversation.

"I'd fly!" Merrill said simply, before hiccuping loudly. "I know it wouldn't help..." she looked momentarily lost for words, "with the thing. The Dalish thing. But it would be fun!"

"What about you, Varric?" The dwarf in question raised his arms in a genial fashion.

"Isabela, why ever would you mess with perfection?"

"A fair point," Isabela murmured, eyes drifting downwards to Varric's exposed chest. "Fenris?"

"I would have the power," Fenris began, and Hawke found herself leaning in curiously, "to nullify all other powers." (She would later be amazed that Fenris could handle the word 'nullify' when she was having difficulty with her own name.)

At the time, however, she just scowled and threw her drink at him.

(It was empty, but she figured the effect was there.)


	4. Marethari has words for Merrill's LI

Hawke sipped at the tea gingerly. It had not escaped her notice that after joking about inviting the Dalish for tea over three years ago, she had been invited for tea by the Dalish. The Maker - or the Creators? Merrill believed more strongly in them than Hawke ever had the Maker - had a peculiar sense of humour.

"I understand that you and Merrill are together now," Marethari said, in that calm, lilting voice of hers. It was lovely to listen to, but slightly frustrating when it came to picking up inflection.

"Uh, yes." It seemed to be an inoffensive enough answer. Hawke wasn't very good at those - for some bizarre reason, people had a tendency to either love her or be rubbed entirely the wrong way.

Marethari nodded sagely before taking another sip of her own tea. "You will remember that I once said you had a light inside you, child."

"Yes?"

Another sip. "Hurt her in any way, and I shall extinguish it for you."


	5. Aveline arrests Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have happened at some point if you rivalled Aveline with a sarcastic Hawke. _That's all I'm saying._

"Would you believe me if I said this wasn't my fault?"

"Yes."

Her hands remained tied behind her back, Hawke noted.

"Then... would it help if I said you're my favourite guard in the entirety of Kirkwall?"

"Not in the slightest."

Hawke sighed. For all that she admired Aveline for her strength and courage and the way she stopped Hawke getting stabbed in the midst of battle, the woman could be so terribly _difficult_ at times.

"Mother will be so worried if I'm not back home tonight. You wouldn't want to worry her, would you?" Hawke was not above emotional blackmail, and from the way Aveline's nostrils flared she had chosen well.

"I'm sure I can send someone to tell her _why_ you've been arrested," Aveline said coolly, and Hawke winced. Perhaps she was not the best target for blackmail, after all. Back to protesting her arrest, then.

"You know, I don't really think what I was doing was illegal. Just... morally flexible."

Aveline sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Public indecency is a crime, Hawke."

"Oh come on! Isabela does it all the time, and I don't see you arresting her."

"Isabela has yet to do it in the Viscount's garden."

Hawke considered arguing further, but she supposed Aveline had a point. Saemus had seemed rather traumatised.

"Well then," she said, in the weary tones of one resigned to their fate, "can I at least have some pants?"

A pair of torn trousers were thrown in her face.


	6. Doctor's Orders

“You're enjoying this, aren't you.” A statement, not a question, and a particularly pointed one at that.

Anders simply smiled beatifically. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I'm sure it simply thrills you no end to have me at your mercy like this,” Fenris said sourly, his arms folded across his bandaged chest.

“Yes, I can scarcely restrain myself,” Anders dead-panned, though he'd be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying this. He had few enough opportunities to be petty, he'd allow himself this one. “The moment Hawke dragged your bleeding, oozing body into my clinic I was practically rubbing my hands with glee. Oh wait, no – I was _saving your life_ you bloody ingrate.”

Fenris scowled. “And forcing me to remain here?” He gestured towards the blood-stained cot he was lying on. “In this filth?”

“Shut up,” said Anders, because he spent an hour every morning making his clinic sanitary and did not appreciate it being an hour wasted. “It's cleaner than the place you're squatting in. Have you even got rid of those bodies yet?”

Another scowl, which Anders took to mean he hadn't.

“If you going walking about now, you're going to open up those wounds and next time I might find myself less sympathetic to the plight of mage-hating elves.”

Fenris muttered something in Arcanum. Anders didn't understand, but could recognise the tone if nothing else.

“And to keep you occupied, I think I'll read you my manifesto,” he said sweetly. “I've just finished my latest draft.”

And Anders would treasure the look of sheer, unadulterated _horror_ on Fenris's face for the rest of his life.


	7. and then we all fell down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, warning for character death I suppose? (I was uncertain about putting that in the warnings for the whole thing.)

It was funny. When the Chantry burned and he was forced to take sides; Anders and Merrill and _Bethany_ or condemning them and their kind to death, it hadn't even been a choice. He wasn't foolish, he could only guess at the kinds of ramifications it would have, but it still hadn't been a choice.

More like what his entire life had been working towards, it seemed.

But even then, he'd been sure - so _sure_ \- that he'd survive, that he'd live to see a world where mages lived free, where people like his sister and his father and his lover had the same rights as any other man or woman in Thedas.

He'd been naïve.

Merrill had fallen first, a templar's sword running her through, her mouth a tiny 'o' of surprise. Anders had muttered quietly about the Dalish burying their dead, but they all knew that was not an option. Digging a grave would leave them exposed, exert energy they didn't have. Bethany set the body alight, and they watched until only the ashes remained.

Then Anders. A dagger in the back that had just fallen short of a killing blow, but the wound had grown infected and Anders too weak to heal it, and finally Hawke had drawn his knife across his throat just to grant him release. He'd clutched at Anders' hand for a few moments, watched the light in his eyes dim and swallowed a howl of grief that was threatening to get out. Grief was a luxury they did not have the time for any more.

Bethany; an arrow through the heart, straight and true. He'd at least been grateful she had been afforded that much. He didn't think he could stand watching her suffer.

And now him. Sebastian's arrow was trained on him, and even as Hawke gripped his own bow he knew that he was too weary, too far gone to strike first. In all honesty, death would be a welcome relief.

"Tell me, Hawke. How did you think this would end?"

Hawke didn't want to answer.


	8. Nice job breaking it, hero.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take light-hearted trope name as prompt. Turn into something oddly depressing. Slowly and uncertainly pat self on the back.

He could have stopped this, he thinks, blood pounding by his ears as all around him chaos reigns. It wouldn't have been hard.

He could have said no when Anders asked him to distract the Grand Cleric, could have refused to give in. He didn't, because _you cannot claim to love me, then turn on me now_ , and he's a weak man who would do anything for love.

He could have prodded further when Anders first brought up the 'potion', should have been more suspicious at the time that something Anders had claimed was impossible could be done so easily. He didn't, because he wanted to believe that he wasn't going to lose Anders. That one day he wouldn't look into Anders' eyes and see nothing of _him_ left in them.

He could have sent Anders away after Ella, recognized him for the threat he was, to himself and to others. He didn't, and instead invited him into his bed, his house, his _heart_.

He could have left well alone after he got the maps. He didn't, because Anders had smiled at him.

His hand shakes and the tightly gripped knife shakes with it, the reflection of the burning city trembling in its blade. He needs to end this, before he can have any more regrets.

Anders sits there, hunched over the crate, his back exposed. It'll be easy - the knife's sharp enough to pierce through his coat with little resistance, and then Anders will be dead and gone and then maybe Hawke will stop making stupid, selfish decisions.

His grip loosens; the knife clatters to the floor.

He's willing to be selfish just a little bit longer.


	9. Stitch and Bitch

Hawke liked to knit. This was not a problem in of itself, and he took the light-hearted jabs about it in good grace.

No, the problem was that he liked to _share_ his craftsmanship with his friends - and his gifts, while doubtlessly well-intentioned, were not always welcome.

"Hawke, what is this? Is this a modesty panel? Hawke, did you make me a bloody _modesty panel_? Breasts like these are meant to be shared with the world!"

"You think that's bad Rivaini, you should see the one he made me."

"Hawke, I know you mean well, but I really can't use a knitted scabbard."

Fenris received a pair of socks, with a friendly note attached saying that they'd go great with 'a nice pair of boots'. (This was a lie. Fenris wasn't quite sure what the socks - lumpy, and in a hideous shade of green - would go well with, aside from maybe being set on fire.)

"I think we need to hold an intervention," Anders said wearily, though the sound was muffled underneath the thick, woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. It seemed Hawke had either forgotten how tall Anders was, or had gotten carried away - the end product of which was a scarf (made of several balls of yarn, none of which were _quite_ the same colour) that was around ten feet long.

Hawke had taken it quite well, all things considered. There had been no tears, no glasses thrown, and at the end of it everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Hawke didn't mind, for he knew his legacy would live on.

He'd taught Merrill how to knit.


	10. You did that on purpose!

Isabela had wandering hands. They wandered far and wide, had gone where no man or woman had gone before, and often went in for a grope while they were there.

It was, therefore, patently ridiculous that she continued to play it off as an accident. Oh yes, Hawke, my hand slipped and just happened to land on your arse. Sorry Hawke, I tripped and I somehow ended up grabbing your chest for support. My goodness, did I just wander in on you having a bath? Do you need any help scrubbing your back?

She almost felt guilty bringing it up, because Isabela seemed to be having so much fun. _Almost_. "Isabela, you're not fooling anyone, you know."

"Pretty sure I'm fooling Kitten, actually."

"... All right, you're probably fooling Merrill, but in these matters her opinion doesn't count."

"These matters being?" Isabela asked innocently, and the word 'innocent' should never even be in the same vicinity as Isabela. Hawke rolled her eyes.

"Does this," she gestured vaguely towards Isabela, "actually work?"

"You tell me," Isabela purred, then shrugged amiably. "Normally I come on a little stronger, but I figured only the best for you, sweet thing."

Sweet thing. Let no-one say she wasn't a fool for pet names. "And if I just wanted you to drag me up to your room and have your way with me?"

"I'm _getting there_. I just want to have a bit more fun first. See if I can get Sebastian's head to explode."

And sure enough, the next time they visited the chantry, "Whoops! I appear to have fallen head first into your cleavage!"

(Sebastian's head did not explode, but it was probably a near thing.)


	11. A kitten starts to follow Fenris everywhere

The creature was small, and ginger, and had somehow managed to break into his mansion. For obvious reasons, it was the last part that was so disconcerting.

"There is no food for you here," he said sharply, even as the thing mewled and pawed at his feet. "Be off with you."

Cats, it seemed, were terrible at taking orders. It had purred, and then leapt onto his bed, clawed at the already threadbare blanket and fell asleep. Fenris stared at the thing. Forcing it off seemed cruel, and for all that he could see the unfortunate truths the others chose not to notice, he was not cruel. Finally, he'd let out a defeated sigh and decided that sleeping on a chair for one night would not kill him.

When he'd awoken, the cat was resting on his head.

\--- 

"Why are you still here?" he asked it wearily the next day. Feeding it had been a mistake - it wouldn't stop rubbing at his ankles. "Go find rats to chase or something. The witch has dozens of them."

"Talking to yourself's a sign of madness, Fenris," Hawke supplied helpfully from behind him, Varric and the abomination at his side.

"I wasn't talking to myself, I was talking to that," he said, pointing down at his ankles' aggressor.

"Odd," Anders said, crouching down by his feet to look at the thing, and Fenris only just resisted the urge to kick him in the face. Hawke would likely not be impressed. "I always figured you for more of a dog person. You know, jumping at its master's -- ow!" The cat had swiped at his hand, leaving a bleeding gash in its wake.

"I don't know," Fenris said, taking great delight as he knelt slightly to scratch it behind its ear and receiving nothing but a delighted purr for his troubles. "I'm rather fond of it. It appears to have excellent taste."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Anders ran off to cry and think wistfully of Ser Pounce-a-lot.


	12. Isabela's journal

Bought new dagger, got to break it in a couple of hours later. Hawke does spoil me so.

\--- 

Visited darling big girl today. Forgot to knock. She has yet to follow my thoughtful advice, though. May have to carve helpful hints in her desk.  


\--- 

 

Aveline did not appreciate my helpful hints. Stroked Varric's chest hair for comfort. It's very soothing.  


\--- 

 

Got bored, groped entire party over the course of the afternoon. Fenris strangely receptive; may require further investigation.  


\--- 

 

Sometimes wonder if the thoughts I have about ships are entirely healthy. Still, that mast.   


\--- 

 

Desire demon used my love of ships against me. Hawke was surprisingly okay with the betrayal. Perhaps I've found a kindred spirit?  


\--- 

Definitely a kindred spirit. Also, incredibly flexible. ♥ ♥ ♥


	13. One day you'll have a child and I hope they turn out just like you!

"So, when are we going to have little Avelines running around?" Isabela had an arm slung around Aveline's shoulders, and Aveline wondered exactly when they'd reached the point that she didn't want to throw the arm off and maybe give Isabela a slap for good measure. She wished she could blame the ale sat in front of her, but she'd barely even touched it.

"What?" she asked instead.

"Well, I suppose they could be little Donnics, but the thought of a little Aveline is far more adorable."

"Is it now," she said flatly. She knew she was many things, but she was quite sure the word 'adorable' had never applied to her. Sincerely, at least.

"She'd be precious! She'd be all 'halt, wrong-doers!' and they would halt because she'd be adorable and have bright red hair, and then she'd punch them to show them the error of their ways."

Aveline stared at Isabela, who was _clearly_ far more drunk than she'd previously let on. "You do realise that just because she'd be my daughter doesn't mean she would be a perfect copy of me, right?"

"Oh, don't spoil my fun. Hawke!" Isabela nudged at Hawke's sleeping figure, her head laid only inches away from someone's leftover mystery stew. "Wouldn't a miniature Aveline be absolutely amazing?"

Hawke shot Isabela a look of pure, bleary-eyed loathing. "If I say yes, will you let me get back to - hold on." Hawke lifted her head up, shaking it ferociously and then staring at Isabela with a far sharper gaze. "That would be the cutest thing in existence!"

"I know, right?"

"And,” Hawke began, swaying slightly as she straightened in her seat, “we could buy her a tiny sword and shield!"

"Yes!" Isabela exclaimed, clapping her hands excitedly.

"No," corrected Aveline. "You are not giving my theoretical daughter weaponry until she's of an appropriate age."

A thoughtful pause. "So... seven?"

Aveline pressed her palm to her forehead, trying to soothe away the familiar Hawke-and-Isabela-are- _doing something_ ache. Her theoretical daughter was going to have the worst theoretical aunts imaginable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: literally everyone has the same mental image of what Aveline and Donnic's children would be like. Even Fenris.


	14. Salamanders

Sandal could fix this. Everyone was screaming and shouting and crying, and Bodahn was trying to push him gently out the door, saying, "Come now, my boy, it looks like we'll be going to Orlais a bit sooner than we expected."

"Can I have salamanders now?" If he had the salamanders, he could make a boom even bigger than this - but _his_ boom wouldn't make everyone scream. His boom would make the magic come back, like it used to be, and then people would stop being scared. Magic wasn't scary. Magic helped, like his enchantments.

"Not yet, not yet," said Bodahn. They were running towards the docks. Everyone in Hightown was. "Are any of these ships headed for Orlais? I've got coin!"

One of them was. Bodahn hurried him onto it, muttering under his breath, "Ancestors help me, I knew there was something rotten about this place... Ever since what happened to poor Mistress Amell..."

Sandal wanted to say that he could make it better, if he was just given the salamanders, but the words wouldn't come out.

The boat was cramped, and a baby was crying. "Everything's going to be just fine, Sandal," Bodahn said, but _he_ looked frightened too.

Sandal nodded slowly. Maybe there would be salamanders in Orlais.


	15. Look at me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, chapter/prompt specific character death warning.

"You'd think after all this you could at least do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye."

She can't remember even being this furious - in all other circumstances her anger gave way to panic and despair, but here and now there is nothing but a desperate rage that's making her spit her words and clench her fists.

Anders tilts his head upwards, expression blank and detached, as if all this is happening to someone else. It does nothing to temper her; she wants to snarl and kick at him until he's coughing up blood and then let him heal so she can do it all over.

A small part of her knows it isn't so much _what_ he's done that's made her so angry, but that part is quashed before she can let guilt or shame overtake her ire. She didn't give a toss about the Chantry, or even the people in it, but she _did_ care about the uneasy balance she's earned in this city, the respect and influence that had Sebastian crowing that she should be made Viscount, mage or no.

And now Anders has gone and ruined it, and she doesn't have time to deal with him in a way that will properly sate her anger. She can't afford to take into account the consequences of doing this, what could happen if she does _that_.

"Don't you dare look away from me," she tells him coldly, holding the knife just a fraction of an inch away from his throat. Surely, surely _now_ he'll stop looking so damn impassive, maybe plead with her to spare his life. She doesn't know if she'd listen.

But he doesn't, and even when she drags the blade across his throat and his blood soaks the front of his coat his eyes remain fixed on hers and utterly unapologetic.


	16. Don't be dead, please

He'd been asking for it. It was stupid, really – they were travelling with a woman who'd made hitting people (and resultantly being hit _by_ people) her job, and another who apparently really liked having all eyes on her in the battlefield, and yet Hawke still thought it'd be a good idea to get some big, scary demon's attention. (Because _its_ attention had been focused towards Anders, he thought numbly.) Hawke had shot him a sideways grin as he stabbed the thing, thrusting both blades behind him in an unnecessarily showy fashion, which morphed into a look of agony as the demon grabbed at him; molten hands wrapped around his throat and _squeezing_. He made a choking noise and fell to the floor, and Anders had to will himself to move because this was happening, this couldn't be happening but it was and he had to _move_. He froze the demon in place with a quick spell, and then sent a wave of healing energy passing through Hawke, hoping it would be enough.

It wasn't. Trying to ignore the pounding in his ears, he looked up at the demon, the ice already cracking and melting at a rapid pace. “Aveline!” he yelled, not so much hearing the crack in his voice as feeling it in his throat. Aveline's head snapped up from the nearly broken corpse she'd been attacking, eyes widening in alarm at the sight of Hawke and stormed towards them, shrugging off blows from the stragglers. Isabela whistled them over, and began to pick them off, one by one.

The rage demon diverted, Anders grabbed Hawke and awkwardly manhandled him out of the fray, forcing down the urge to gag at the smell of burnt flesh and the weeping wounds the demon had left. He placed his hands on Hawke's ruined neck, panic mounting as the man didn't even react, and released another wave of healing magic, this one stronger than the last. The surface burns seemed to fade, but Anders knew that the worst of the damage would be in the deeper tissue. Stifling a sob, he tried again, letting the magic pour out of him, and Hawke still didn't _move_.

“Don't be dead,” he said shakily, and then again, louder, “don't be dead! Please!” The world around him seemed to slow and fade, and all there was was Hawke, lying there, pale and not moving and _not_ dead, couldn't be dead... He was dimly aware of Isabela and Aveline, Aveline's hand on his shoulder but they weren't important details, they weren't _Hawke_.

And then there were footsteps behind them, and fragments of memory flashed through his mind. Blood mages. Demons. Hawke, Hawke, Hawke...

He snarled, and it wasn't Justice, it wasn't even Vengeance, it was just him, livid and ready to destroy the people responsible. They didn't even have time to put up barriers as he tore into them, swinging out with the bladed end of his stave and firing off every spell he knew, fire and ice and lightning creating a violent tempest around him until it was over, leaving him surrounded by ruined corpses and breathing heavily. Hands on his shoulders – he swung around, ready to destroy anyone ( _everyone_ ) else, and met Aveline's eyes, green eyes boring into his.

“Anders,” she was saying, and her voice felt dulled, distant, “ _Anders_. He's alive.” He practically spun to face where Hawke was lying – and saw the faintest hint of movement, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. He sagged, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and more or less fell over towards Hawke, staring down at him on hands and knees. He was pale and looked disturbingly frail, his face unnaturally impassive. With shaking hands, Anders cupped Hawke's face and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, feeling the thready pulse beneath his fingers. _Alive_.

“All right,” said Isabela, in softer tones than usual, “he's going to be fine. No need to be such a drama queen.” She took a smart step back, presumably just in case he hadn't quite worked off his anger on the mages, but Anders just smiled weakly. His thumb traced the familiar contours of Hawke's cheekbones, his jaw, the bristle of day old stubble under the pad, willing any last traces of mana he still had towards the other man.

“Let's not do that again,” he said softly.


	17. Nothing Better to Do

“We should get married.”

Fenris nodded absently, focusing more on not stepping on a particularly sharp outcrop of rock than what Hawke was saying. (It was times like these where he really did regret not taking Hawke up on his offer of new boots.) It wasn't until Hawke stared at him, hope and entirely uncharacteristic _nervousness_ written across his face that Fenris actually considered what he'd just heard. “... What?”

For a split second, Hawke seemed to deflate. The moment passed, however, and Hawke simply scowled, and walked briskly ahead of him, clearly trying to put some distance between them. “Never mind.”

“You want to get _married_?” Fenris quickened his own pace to catch up with Hawke, hand hovering inches above his shoulder – near enough to grab, if necessary. Fenris knew a thing or two about running away.

“Never mind,” Hawke repeated gruffly. “It was a stupid... it was just a passing thought.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said as calmly as possible, fighting the instinctive urge to snap back at the man. They'd come so far over the years, overcoming a great deal of frustration (and in some instances, blatant stupidity) on both sides. It would be easy to slip back into bad habits – it would also be one of the most foolish things either of them could do. “You are a wanted apostate and known associate of the man who blew up the Chantry.” His lip curled slightly. Hawke had clearly been a bad influence on him. “They don't take such things lightly.”

“I don't see why it's any business of the Chantry's,” Hawke scoffed, but with the faint creases by his eyes that suggested he too could see the funny (if completely tasteless) side. “There's no need to bring religion into it. It's not like I'm planning to marry Andraste herself.” The barest hint of a smile threatened to break through. “I have my sights on someone far more appealing.”

“That is one of the most flattering things I've ever had said to me. What is _wrong_ with the people I associate with?”

“They were clearly just terrified about what I'd do if I caught them at it.” As if to demonstrate this point, Hawke let a small ball of flame burn in the palm of his hand, extinguishing it just as quickly. “I happen to be a very possessive man.”

“And so you wish to get married,” Fenris concluded, not missing the way Hawke's eyes darted away from his and instead looked pointedly out into the distance.

“I don't want it to sound like I'm staking my claim,” said Hawke. “Maker, Fenris... I don't want to be like Dana—”

“You are nothing like him,” Fenris said sharply. Even at Hawke's worst; when he seemed prepared to kill every templar in Kirkwall himself, he was never Danarius. Never even close.

“Well,” Hawke continued, apparently emboldened by this interruption, “you said that if there's a future to be had...”

“I would gladly walk it at your side.” Fenris made sure there was not a single waver in his tone. He needed Hawke to believe it as strongly as he did.

“And I just thought... this would be more official. Proper.” Hawke smiled at him weakly. “I'm bad at this, aren't I?”

“I can't claim to be any better,” said Fenris – and that was being generous. Few people would be on board carrying on a relationship abandoned after a single night three years before. On the other hand, it was practically a given that Hawke was rather exceptional – in his own, standoffish sort of way.

“True,” replied Hawke, laying his hand on Fenris'. “We're both dreadful. Clearly we deserve each other.”

“'Til death do us part,” Fenris intoned. (In part because it was more or less all he remembered of Aveline and Donnic's wedding. That particular line had stuck with him, and had at the time made him cast his gaze over at Hawke – only to find Hawke looking back, and hurriedly turned away.)

“Irrelevant. You're not allowed to die.”

“I shall bear that in mind.”

They walked on in companionable silence for a while longer, only broken by the occasional twitter of birdsong and twigs snapping beneath their feet. “I'm not talking about a real ceremony, of course. The guest list would be quite short, for one.”

“Your mabari does not count as a guest.” Well, Fenris was reasonably sure pets didn't count. On the other hand, the mabari was one of Hawke's least objectionable companions, so maybe he'd allow it.

“Of course not,” Hawke sniffed. “He'd be the best man.”

“The maid of honour.”

“Excuse me,” said Hawke, standing up to his full height. (This was, admittedly, not a great deal taller than Fenris anyway. Hawke was an oddly impressive figure – he carried himself with the sort of height and girth of someone far taller and wider than he actually was. Fenris wondered if anyone else had caught on that the Champion of Kirkwall was actually quite a short man, and while hardly waiflike he was not nearly as stockily built as some might expect.) “I would clearly be the husband. I can grow a beard.”

“I'm stronger.”

“Aveline's stronger than Donnic, and she's his wife.”

Fenris considered this for a moment. “You're right. I'd like to be the wife.”

Hawke too appeared to have thought about the implications of this. Donnic was a fine man – and likely no-one else would have got Hawke's blessings (though if Aveline _knew_ that Hawke had suggested Donnic _needed_ his blessings, she'd probably have punched him far sooner than she had). That said, Aveline was... Aveline. “No, I've changed my mind. I'll be the wife.”

“But as you've said, you could grow such a _fine_ beard...”

“I hate it when you try to tell jokes,” Hawke growled, “ _dear_.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“Fine, fine. We're adults, we can come to an agreement.” Hawke paused for a moment. “How do you feel about taking turns?”

Fenris didn't roll his eyes, but it took a not insignificant amount of effort. Instead, he simply levelled a pointed look at Hawke, and waited for him to pick up the hint. To his credit, it did not take long.

“... How about I'm yours, and you're mine, and that's all that matters and if anyone argues I'll set them on fire?”

“That would be...” Amazing, fantastic, the greatest thing that could happen to him and so much more than he really deserved, “Acceptable.”

“Deal, then,” Hawke said, sticking out his hand. Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Hawke scowled. “Look, I'm not getting down on one knee. The ground's filthy, and we don't wash our clothes nearly as often as we ought. Romantic gestures are for people with washing lines.”

Fenris, however, cared little for the state of their clothing, and swiftly had Hawke pinned against a nearby tree, kissing him as though it was their first, as though it would be their last. “Mine,” he whispered by Hawke's ear.

“Mine,” said Hawke huskily, and then, “Maker, Fenris, at least let me get undressed,” and finally, “Just so you know, you're doing the washing tonight, and these grass stains had better come out.”

Fenris was far too pre-occupied to argue.


	18. Justice approves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I... have no idea where this came from. I don't remember writing this (or if I posted it anywhere), making it entirely possible I did it while blacked out. It says so much about my writing that this has made no noticeable impact on the quality. I am an embarrassment to the human race.

Mages weren't designed for battling big, scary Qunari single-handedly. The fight had involved a lot of running from one side of the room to the other – and wasn't _that_ exactly what people wanted to see their final hope doing? - and a lot of pain. At one point, the Arishok's sword had gone right through him, and the Arishok had lifted him into the air, his body slipping further and further down the length of the blade. In a stroke of luck, he'd managed to kick himself off, and then with the world slipping into red-tinged grey and limbs refusing to cooperate properly, fired off as many spells as he could manage. It didn't matter what – by this point he was so exhausted that every spell was a weak, feeble thing compared to usual – and finally a bolt of electricity struck true and the Arishok crumpled. Hawke leapt on the opportunity and brought the bladed end of his staff down on the Arishok's neck.

Then there were words, and the Knight-Commander and oh Maker everyone in Kirkwall knew he was a mage and he'd be made tranquil and Anders would go all Justice-y and get killed, and all the while the steady _drip drip_ as his gaping wound grew more and more gaping. He reached for the nearest person - _Aveline_ , no one-one else was so tall, so sturdy, so _reliable_ \- tried to speak but could only make a weak retching noise, and fell into her waiting arms.

\--- 

“You look angry,” Hawke whispered, and if anything Anders looked more furious. His hair had fallen loose, and harsh lines creased his face, as if he'd aged ten years over night. Normally warm amber eyes were dim and bloodshot, and watery, as if Anders was on the verge of tears.

“Shut up.” There were hands on his abdomen, Hawke realised, but it felt almost as though his body belonged to someone else; someone a long way away. It felt wrong. “You idiot.”

“Well, how's _that_ \--”

“Shut up shut up _shut up_.” A tear slid down Anders' face, running along one hollow cheek. “I don't know if I can fix this.”

And Hawke looked down at himself and the _hands_ before he could help it. The hole was still there – if maybe a little smaller? His robes, his skin, Anders' hands were soaked in blood, and Hawke didn't know if he was shaking, or Anders, or both of them. He'd seen Anders up to his elbows in guts and gore before, but it's not usually _his_. There's something eerily beautiful about the flowing curves of crimson on Anders' arms.

“I love you?” he tried, and that wasn't the right thing to say either, it seemed. Anders refused to look at him, and Hawke would have felt slighted if it weren't for the rhythmic hitches of Anders' shoulders, punctuated with sobs.

“I need to put you to sleep,” Anders said finally, brokenly. “Hawke, I--”

“You can do it,” Hawke murmured, as much for his sake as Anders'. He certainly wasn't in any real hurry to die. “You're a much better healer than me.”

“Not saying much, love.”

“Oh, sure,” Hawke began, but as he spoke his eyelids became heavy, the call of sleep far too irresistible. _Make fun of the dying man_.

“Don't leave me,” was the last thing he heard.

\--- 

The Fade. He wandered there some nights, on the increasingly rare occasions where he wasn't too exhausted to dream. It was an unsettling place – everything you thought you knew about the world got turned on its head, demons and spirits wandering side-by-side and if you had any sense of self-preservation you'd stay far away from either.

At the moment, it seemed, that was not an option. The armoured figure was marching towards him purposefully, the clanking of its boots echoing with each step. It drew closer, and Hawke saw the recognition in its eyes. _Ah_.

“Justice,” he said flatly. He can respect the spirit – what it stands for, at least – but he'll _never_ forget Anders standing above that girl, glowing and vicious and _inhuman_ , and that Justice made him do it. He didn't care if Anders corrupted the spirit in the first place, didn't grieve like Anders does over what he did to his friend – Hawke only cared about the man he loved. Sometimes, though, he wondered how much of the man he loved _was_ Justice.

“Hawke.” The spirit stared at him, contemplating. “You acted nobly, today.”

“Really?” Hawke shot back sourly. “You don't think I should have let Isabela be taken, in penance for what she did? Wouldn't that have been _justice_?”

“Yes.” Justice seemed almost hesitant. “And yet I have come to understand that mortals do not see justice with eyes unclouded. You acted out of a duty to your friend.”

Hawke's brow wrinkled, and he pulled a face that was probably not the most flattering expression in the world. Still, it was only Justice. “That's unusually reasonable of you.”

“You misjudge me.”

“Really?” Hawke said, with a slightly bitter chuckle. “You don't leave much room for misinterpretation.”

“Outside of the Fade, things are... different. Anders' anger, Anders' fear... his desire. It changes me.”

“Into a demon that's prepared to kill the very people Anders is fighting for.” Hawke frowned. “I _know_ Anders. He would never.”

“I know Anders more intimately than you ever will,” Justice said, with no trace of _anything_ , just a statement of fact, and Hawke's fists clenched. “This distresses you.”

“Shut up,” Hawke hissed. “You don't. You can't.”

“I believed you were a distraction from the cause,” Justice continued thoughtfully. “And yet it is different here. I can think with perfect clarity once more. You... temper him.”

Hawke did not feel much like tempering right now. “I wouldn't need to if you weren't there.”

“You're resentful.” Justice sounded almost surprised.

“Is there any reason I shouldn't be?”

If Justice had been surprised before, then Hawke was probably entitled to a small heart attack as Justice lifted his helm and kissed him. He didn't _kiss back_ , exactly, but nor did he draw back. He hoped he could explain that away with the shock of a particularly uptight Fade spirit deciding to snog him apropos of nothing. (As opposed to apropos of... Maker, this was _weird_.)

“What?” There was so much more he _could_ say, much of which involved cursing and possibly running far, far away afterwards. 'What' seemed to sum it up quite nicely, however.

“You have proven yourself an ally to the cause.” As if that explained everything. Apparently to Justice, it did, as the man - _spirit_ \- leaned in for another kiss, his lips tentatively brushing Hawke's. When Hawke didn't pull away (why, _why_ wasn't he pulling away?), he deepened it and Hawke's senses _exploded_ with the taste of the unfamiliar; something his brain couldn't process – and Hawke couldn't have helped the moan from escaping between his lips if he'd tried. _Everything and nothing and everything in between._

“This is my _just_ reward then?” he panted, and it was _pathetic_ but his brain still hadn't caught up with everything else – as if his mind had had its own private little reward and was still basking in the afterglow. Cold, gauntleted hands ran along his body with an electric touch that at once soothed and tensed, sheer arcane power crackling through him like nothing else he'd ever experienced.

If Justice had noticed the pun, he didn't comment. “The righteous shall be rewarded, the wrong-doers punished.” The voice, deep and powerful and _everywhere_ sent a spasm down Hawke's spine, another guttural groan of ecstasy.

He wasn't sure how _righteous_ he was, but at this point he certainly wasn't going to argue.

\--- 

He awoke to find Anders gazing down at him, looking exhausted but contented, a half-written piece of his manifesto laid across his lap.

“Thank the Maker,” he said quietly, and threw his arms around Hawke – and it was gratifying to see the manifesto flutter forgotten to the ground. Hawke patted his back awkwardly, mindful that in spite of him not spilling his guts everywhere, there were probably a few lingering injuries. “I thought...”

Hawke shushed him, and tried desperately hard not to feel like the lowest of the low – this was much worse than the time he'd fantasised about Fenris. Void take him, this was worse than the time he'd fantasised about Fenris and Anders _together_. The familiar stickiness between his legs? _Not helping_.

“Anders, I...”

Anders gave him a knowing look. “ _Justice_ seems happy with you.” Hawke's mouth fell open, and Anders smirked. “We share a body. It was practically inevitable we'd end up sharing you too.”

“You're not...” _Upset? Furious?_

“He's calm at the moment. This is the first time he has been since... since Ella.” Anders stood, and with the perceptiveness of someone who'd just suffered a potentially life-threatening injury Hawke noticed for the first time that he was in his bedroom. He hoped he hadn't bled out too badly over his sheets – even if Orana was frighteningly adapt at getting blood stains out. This seemed to be of little concern to Anders, who slipped into bed beside him and carefully wrapped an arm around him.

“You're really okay with me, er... getting to know Justice?” Hawke asked, wondering if Anders had at some point taken too many blows to his rather delicate mage-head. (Which was _clearly_ more fragile than standard heads.)

Anders shrugged one shoulder sleepily. “I love you. That means at least a part of him does too,” he said, as though this much should have been obvious. Hawke gave a small smile, took hold of one of Anders' hands and kissed the worn skin of his palm.

He supposed it was.

But he should probably check Anders over for concealed head injuries, just in case.


	19. Doctor's Note

Dear Serah Hawke,

Please excuse Isabela from visiting the Qunari compound. She believes that going in there will cause a flare-up.

Please do not ask 'A flare-up of what?'

You do not want to know. ~~_I_ didn't want to know, either.~~

Yours faithfully,

Anders

\--- 

Dear Serah Hawke,

In spite of him being a ~~feral dog~~ mage-hater, I must request that you excuse Fenris from going to the Gallows. He says the way Solivitus eyes him up makes him feel uncomfortable. ~~He thinks Sol's going to try and use him as a rare ingredient.~~ As a healer, it is my duty to ensure my patients are not distressed ~~even if I'd quite like to feed them to a dragon~~.

Yours faithfully,

Anders

\--- 

Dear Serah Hawke,

I regretfully inform you that Varric is ~~hungover. Did you see the way he was drinking last night? He put Isabela to shame.~~ unable to join us on our trip to the Bone Pit today, on account of being severely under the weather. He asked me to tell you that he's sorry he and Bianca will not be travelling with us, and that he fully intends to make it up to you. ~~Actually, what he said was: “Blondie, if you don't close that door right now you and Bianca are about to become intimately acquainted.” I'm choosing not to take it personally.~~

Yours,

Anders

\--- 

Dear Hawke,

Please excuse me from venturing into the Deep Roads with you. ~~I thought I could do it. I can't. I'm sorry. The voices and the dark and the heaviness and~~ While of course after everything you have done for ~~me~~ the mages in Kirkwall I would gladly go anywhere by your side, I am simply unable to abandon the refugees that depend on me. ~~I think there's been another outbreak of plague. If you don't see me for a while, please send someone in to dispose of my corpse. Do not go in yourself. I might not be a pretty corpse.~~

I hope ~~you have a lovely time in the darkspawn infested tunnels WHY WOULD I WRITE THAT~~ your expedition is a success. Stay well clear of talking darkspawn. ~~They have clammy hands.~~

Yours,

Anders

\--- 

Dear Hawke,

Please excuse your brother for being a traitor who ran off to join the templars. ~~Or don't.~~ He's at that age where purposefully hurting your family at every turn is just the _thing to do_ , and...

No. Sorry. He's just a tit.

 ~~Hawke, are you all right?~~

Yours,

Anders

\--- 

Dear Hawke,

Sebastian has put forth the ~~dubious~~ claim that going into the Fade to save Feynriel will result in a crisis of faith ~~which I assume means that the Andraste buckle will savage his crotch~~ , which could prove ill to his health. Sebastian will instead spend his time praying for our immortal souls. Isn't that nice of him?

Yours,

Anders

\--- 

Dear Hawke,

Please excuse Merrill from joining us today. ~~She's going to spend all her time in front of that cursed mirror, _why_ are you letting her do this to herself? You've seen what her blood magic has done, how long will it be before it finally consumes her and _you_ could be put at risk and I can't...~~

She has a cold. Her house gets damp this time of the year.

\--- 

Hawke

I'm sorry

I thought I could control it

I can't

I'm sorry

I need to go

\--- 

Dear 'Hawke's lot',

I am sorry to say that Hawke has taken ill, and will be spending the next few days at home. Please do not come over – the only cure is ~~mindless rutting against the wall~~ rest, and lots of it.

Why not take the time to better yourselves as people? ~~Especially _you_ , Fenris.~~

Anders

 ~~P.S. Hawke says hi, or possibly, “Oh Anders, right there!”~~

\--- 

Love,

Aveline has informed me that she is feeling slightly unwell, and requires plenty of rest to ensure she recovers. Guardsman Donnic will be by her side around the clock, making sure her _every need_ is attended to. I asked if the embarrassment we had to endure a couple of days ago was related to the illness; she threatened to break my spine.

I am therefore leaving her recovery in Donnic's attentive hands.

Forever yours,

Anders


	20. I don't think you're qualified to be doing that

Carver had an... interesting relationship with his sister. Most of the time it was like talking (or more frequently, shouting) at a brick wall, but on the rare occasions she did listen to what he had to say and did something that didn't make him want to throw things at her, he ended up regretting it.

The most obvious of which was the Deep Roads expedition. Normally when Carver regretted going with her down there, it was after a particularly vivid nightmare. These were... somewhat unusual circumstances.

He had a dagger. This wasn't an issue.

It was stuck in his leg. That _was_ , especially the way it also gone several inches into the ground and would not budge.

Oghren was currently giving it a speculative look, scratching at his beard. "Yup. That leg's definitely gonna have to go."

"What?!" Carver most definitely _did not_ yelp.

Oghren wasn't listening and was already shifting his axe from one hand to the other and looking entirely too eager by half. "Don't worry. One good swing and it'll all be over. Human legs grow back, right?"

"No! No, they don't!"

"Huh." Oghren squinted at him with bloodshot eyes, and this was _not_ how Carver wanted to go. Death by drunken dwarf was not something you wanted written on your grave, no matter how alliterative. "Eh. You can make do."

He lifted the axe up into the air, and Carver might just have screamed. A little. And in a very manly fashion.

The axe fell, a scant few inches away from Carver. He stared at it, and almost didn't notice Oghren wrenching the dagger from his leg and slapping a poultice onto the wound - until it stung like the blazes, and he did.

Carver gave the dwarf a disbelieving look.

"Stay away from my cask," Oghren said. He made to tap his nose with his forefinger, and missed spectacularly. "I notice these things, y'see."


	21. Dwarf Bread

Sigrun and Oghren are staring at it reverentially, and Carver just doesn't get it.

"It's... bread," he says carefully, trying to figure out exactly what he's missing here. Bread is one thing they never have in short supply, however stale and flavourless it might be. He receives an answer that is neither in the negative or affirmative, and can't fight the scowl attempting to break across his face. "It's not that exciting."

Oghren gives him a look as close to disapproval as one can manage when they're seconds away from collapsing on the floor in a drunken stupor. "What are you, stupid? This is Dwarf Bread."

Carver can hear the capitalisation, and suddenly eyes the bread warily. "And that's... different to normal bread."

"Allow me," Sigrun says, and swings the bread into the table, as ferociously as she would any axe.

The bread remains completely untouched. The same can not be said for the table, which now contains a sizeable crack.

"Do you think that's coming out of my stipend?" she asks conversationally, while Carver stares horror-struck at the damage.

It takes several moments before he's able to look away again. "And people - dwarves, I mean - _eat_ that stuff?"

"No, no, you _don't_ eat it. That's sort of the point." Sigrun sounds almost fond as she continues, "We used to carry it with us everywhere. In the Legion, I mean. There's nothing that makes deepstalker meat more appealing than knowing you've only got Dwarf Bread in your pack."

"I don't get it," Carver says - and tries hard not to imagine eating deepstalker. It's a personal rule of his not to eat something that spits out venom. Maybe it's an acquired taste.

Oghren snorts, and Sigrun pats him gently on the shoulder. (Unfortunately, gently and Sigrun do not go together well, and there will be bruises on that shoulder later, adding a patch of purple to the other blotches of yellow and green from past pats.) "Don't worry," she says. "We wouldn't expect you to."

Dwarves are strange, Carver decides with no small sense of finality.


	22. Mabari Dominance

“Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy? Is it you? Isityou? It is! It's _you_! Such a good boy!”

 _I have slept with this man_ , thought Anders. _I have slept with this man on numerous occasions. At what point did this become my life?_

He'd always known that Hawke loved his mabari. You'd have to have been blind not to. Even when he'd first met Hawke, the dog had been behind him, wagging its tail as if it didn't have a care in the world.

Come to think of it, it probably didn't, and that didn't endear it to Anders in the slightest. It didn't have to worry about the plight of all mages, it wasn't under constant threat of being dragged away by templars and facing the selective brand of mercy that _only_ the Chantry could consider as such. It was happy just so long as it was fed and people paid attention to it.

(Anders missed the days when that was all it took to keep _him_ happy.)

He didn't _dislike_ it, because that was entirely more effort than a filthy mongrel (that was bathed regularly and probably had a far finer pedigree than Anders himself) deserved. He'd have liked to pretend it didn't exist, but that proved difficult when the dog would bound up towards him and stare with big, beguiling eyes until Anders either petted it or left the room.

It proved even more difficult when it would somehow get into Hawke's – their – bedroom and leap onto the bed, curling up snugly between them. Anders had woken up with dog hair in his mouth too many times for any sane human being, never mind a cat person, and was beginning to suspect he was starting to smell like dog. Ser Pounce-a-lot would be so ashamed.

“Sometimes I think you love that thing more than you do me,” he mused, watching Hawke crouch down beside the mabari, long arms curled around it like an overly-large, slobbering children's toy.

“It's a close one,” Hawke admitted, nuzzling his head against its, and earning a sloppy lick across his cheek. Anders cringed inwardly. “But I think you win. Just.”

“Oh, that's reassuring. So, if there was a fire and you could only rescue one thing...”

Hawke gave an exaggerated flex of his arms, and even as Anders rolled his eyes he didn't miss the opportunity to ogle. Hawke, much like his mabari, was _big_ , even if it was in a far more appealing way. “One under each arm. And then I'd go back in the rescue the servants.”

Of course he would. Anders smiled fondly – and then pulled a face as the dog jumped up and began slathering over Hawke's. He was going to demand Hawke wash his face quite thoroughly before kissing him again.

\--- 

“You're wonderful,” Hawke murmured, the words hot and breathy against the skin of Anders' back, “thank you.”

Anders wriggled gleefully. Just a little. He reached around and pulled Hawke's arm around him, clutching Hawke's hand to his chest and pressing a light kiss against it. “I think I should be the one telling you that. For everything you've done. Thank you.”

“I couldn't have done it without you.”

“Flatterer.”

He felt Hawke grinned, followed by a faint nip of teeth. “Worked, didn't it?”

“Yes, I'm,” Anders broke off to yawn, “completely seduced by your charms. Take me now.”

“Mm. Too comfortable right now. Ask me later.”

It was a perfect moment – one of those quiet ones which didn't raise a fuss about how fantastically perfect they were, but nevertheless _were_ – and Anders would have rather appreciated it lasting forever.

As stands to reason, it lasted all of a moment, and the dog came barrelling through the door at high speed – back from another exciting evening of chewing on tender young guard recruits – and planted itself on top of them both, resting most of its weight on Anders.

Anders; who weighed only slightly more than the mabari on a good day, was suddenly not very comfortable at all. “Hawke,” he wheezed, “it's crushing my _ribs_.”

“Don't crush Anders, boy,” Hawke said, sounding far, far too relaxed about it. The dog huffed, but scooted off of Anders, instead curling up beside Hawke and almost immediately drifting off to sleep. Its owner soon followed suit, leaving Anders wide awake with only his thoughts for company.

Namely: _the dog is trying to kill me_. Mabaris were supposed to be intelligent – for dogs, at the very least, which wasn't saying much – and very, very protective of those they'd imprinted on. Dear Maker, it _was_ trying to kill him, and had somehow picked up more subtle means of doing so than tearing out its victim's throat. He was going to get murdered by a mabari, and the blasted thing would probably make it look like an accident.

Eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep, and if he'd been in better spirits he might have appreciated that the normal darkspawn-filled dreams that usually kept him occupied were at least being punctuated with dreams of the dog killing him in increasingly creative ways.

As it was, it just left him ill-tempered and tetchy the next day, and had snapped at Hawke before he realised that maybe _that was its plan_.

\--- 

Anders coughed. Right. He could do this. He had faced far scarier things than this in his time – the Mother, the Queen of the Blackmarsh, a (literally) flaming golem – he could manage a single dog.

“I may have misjudged you,” he said eventually, the words reluctant to come out. “You're not... _entirely_ worthless.”

It - _he_ , Anders corrected – stared up at him, and made a pitiful keening noise.

“No, that's not fair. You...” Quite probably saved Hawke's life, and it had taken Anders this long to stop shaking at just how close he'd come to losing him. “You were good. Very good. Nearly as good as Ser Pounce-a-lot.” He hesitated. “Good boy. You've earned this.”

And, with the nervous air of one who'd been bitten by a dog as a young boy and never _quite_ gotten over it, he offered it – him – a thick, meaty lamb bone, which he tore into excitedly. Anders had to fight back a grin at his enthusiasm.

“Good boy,” he repeated. “But, uh, I'm still a cat person. You understand?”

The bark he got in response could have meant any number of things, but Anders suspected it meant, 'Yes, yes, now leave me to my lamb bone.'

\--- 

It started with the dead bird, left at the foot of their bed.

Hawke and Anders had each stared at it for a while. Perhaps if they did so long enough, the bird would either go or change into something that made sense.

They'd kept staring at it until the dog had trotted in, deposited a dead mouth beside it, and gazed up at them expectantly.

“Bones,” Hawke began uncertainly, “this isn't what we wanted. Neither of us have any use for them.”

The dog tilted his head up towards Anders, and whined.

“Did you ask for them?” said Hawke. Anders turned to stare at _him_ , and he raised his hands apologetically. “Sorry! I just can't see why he'd do this out of the blue.”

Which was true. For all of Bones' faults, gifting them dead animals had not previously been among them. Even Ser Pounce-a-lot hadn't...

Oh.

“I think,” Anders said cautiously, looking from the dog to the blooming blood stain on the floor, and back to the dog again, “your dog's trying to act more like a cat.”

Hawke wrinkled his nose in disgust. Their 'friendly debate' of the merits of cats versus dogs had turned surprisingly heated, with Hawke not understanding how someone could love something that 'only pays you attention when it wants something', and Anders quite vehemently defending Ser Pounce-a-lot's (and Mister Wiggums', may he rest in contented and well-fed peace) honour. “Why?”

“Because I'm a cat person.”

“...So what you're saying is that my dog is trying to court you,” Hawke said, sounding positively gleeful about it.

Bones barked excitedly, then trotted out the door.

However, the dead animals were still there, and still very much dead.

Anders groaned, and tried hard not to think of what would happen if the mabari tried to sit on his head when he wanted something. Death by dog really wasn't a dignified way to go.

\--- 

Anders had been living in the Hawke estate for nearly two years before he came across Bones' treasure hoard.

“So,” he said to Hawke as Bones gnawed at the tattered fragments of what had probably once been a doll, “this is what you do with all the rubbish you collect.”

“Not _all_ of it,” Hawke protested. “I let people take what they like from the pile before I give it to him, and I make sure to remove anything that might be dangerous first.”

“Hawke, there is a dragon eye in there!”

“Huh.” Hawke inspected it for a moment. “Odd, I thought he'd have eaten that by now.” He shrugged. “Ah well. Did you see the trousers?”

Anders _had_ seen the trousers, and was at least slightly relieved to see that his lover had not been hoarding dozens of pairs of raggedy trousers over the years for himself. “Yes. He's made himself quite a nice bed out of them. Well done that dog.”

“Yes,” Hawke said, sounding just a little bit too proud of a creature that currently had what looked like part of a _slaver invoice_ in his mouth, “he's very resourceful.”

\--- 

“Admit it,” Hawke said one night, stretched out across Anders in what had to be the least comfortable position imaginable – not that Anders was going to complain. (Not until he got pins and needles, at least.)

“Admit what?”

“You like my dog.”

Anders tried to shrug, and failed miserably under the weight of Hawke's long, gangly limbs that seemed to have taken up the entire bed. “He's... not bad. For a dog.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“He's all right.”

The other eyebrow rose to rejoin its friend.

“ _Fine_. I like your dog. He's not nearly as whiny and flea-ridden as he could be. Happy?”

Hawke smiled, then disentangled himself from Anders. Anders made a small noise at the back of his throat at the retreating warmth (and more importantly, the retreating, mostly-naked _Hawke_ ). Hawke stepped lightly over the floor, avoiding the odd sock or twenty that Anders had left lying there, and latched the door.

 _Latched the door_.

“How long,” Anders said, proud of his voice for not shaking indignantly, “has there been a latch there?”

“Oh, about... thirty years, give or take?”

Anders stared at him. Hawke simply beamed back. “You could have... for _three years_... I don't know whether to kiss you or kill you.”

“The kissing,” said Hawke, sliding back into bed and pinning Anders beneath him. “Definitely the kissing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I update this (or, er, post anything), I feel like I'm going "Aw yeah guys, check out my sweet mediocrity. Isn't it positively _mediocre_?"
> 
> So. Um. Thanks for enjoying or otherwise reading my sweet mediocrity. Will try to be marginally less mediocre in the future.


	23. Baby Blues

She was supposed to feel happier about this, she was certain. All the young nobles - younger than herself, and it wasn't as though they'd let her forget it - spoke endlessly of their little darlings back home, how they had their husband's eyes or hair or nose, how much it pained them to be parted from them for so long. The pride didn't seem to fade either; women closer to her age or older bragging of their children's latest accomplishments - how beautiful their daughter was, how gifted their son was at swordplay.

She stared down at the child, and wondered if she'd done something wrong. The child itself was fine; as sweet and innocent as she could have hoped for. Alistair had seemed proud enough, cradling him gently to his chest with a disbelieving grin on his face. (He'd explained to her how unlikely it was he'd have children when they'd wed, and she'd scowled and shouted at him for almost an hour after. It didn't matter what the circumstances were; if she failed to give him a child all the fingers in Ferelden would be pointed at her. She'd had quite enough of that with Cailan.)

He'd kissed her on the cheek, and she hadn't even found it in herself to give him a scolding look for it. The birth itself had been an easy one, much to the surprise of the numerous midwifes and healers they had on hand. (Anora herself had disagreed with that assessment, but supposed they were rather more experienced than her in such areas.)

This was supposed to be a blissful moment for her. She couldn't understand why it wasn't. She did everything she was supposed to, letting the nursemaid take over where she saw fit, and didn't understand why it wasn't _working_.

Anora knew herself, knew her failings and strengths, but this... wasn't this supposed to come naturally?

Her father had loved her, up until the day he died. She'd doubted everything else about him, but never that. So why didn't... why _couldn't_ she...?

Arms wrapped around her, and she couldn't help but stiffen in them. It didn't matter that she knew they could only belong to one person – the increased guard presence around the palace had seen to that. “It's all right, you know. I've been talking to the midwife, and she said–”

“I'm fine,” she said tartly. “I'm just tired.”

A broad thumb brushed clumsily at her cheek, and came away shining in the candle light. She blinked at it for a moment, and then rubbed furiously at her damp eyes.

“I'm fine,” she repeated, but her voice shook even as she did so.

“It's _normal_ \- I mean, that's what the midwife said, _I_ don't really know about this sort of...” he trailed off, and under better circumstances Anora would have almost felt like laughing. Her husband was exhausting, but he could be... endearing, if not outright amusing. On occasion. “You don't have to beat yourself up over it.”

“My duty is to carry on the Theirin line. I should be stronger than this.”

“You are strong. And just a little scary. But in a good way!”

She scoffed. She certainly didn't feel strong; tired and weepy and occasionally looking longingly at dresses she'd probably never fit into again. And yet...

She could overcome this. She _would_ overcome this. But there was no shame in asking for help – at least from those you could trust. Her father may not have realised that, but she could learn from his mistakes.

She allowed herself to relax slightly, letting Alistair support just a little more of her weight. “So, what did the midwife say?” she asked.


	24. I can't be seen with you when you're dressed like that

" _What_ are you wearing?"

Isabela raised an eyebrow. In all the time she'd known her, she'd never once heard Hawke sound quite so appalled - and she couldn't help the sudden rush of self-consciousness that only Hawke could bring out in her. "It's a dress. You know, a lot like the one _you're_ wearing."

It's one of the fanciest things Isabela's ever owned. (She doesn't count the dresses she wore back when she wasn't _Isabela_ , with a ring on her finger and bruises around her wrists. Those weren't hers, they were his, and she was just his doll to dress up as he wished.) There wasn't any point having beautiful Orlesian silk dresses on a ship - they'd last all of a few days before being ruined - and in Kirkwall she'd been content with her tunic that drew stares and disapproving looks and showed the world that this was who she was, like it or lump it.

Still, she'd made quite a bit of coin in Kirkwall, both from Hawke divvying out the earnings of every venture out between them and a few little jobs she'd taken on for herself, and there was only so much you could spend on whiskey and jewellery and hats.

"So I've noticed. But why are _you_ wearing it?"

She stared at Hawke. Hawke could be insensitive, but usually in a way that was as loveable as it was obnoxious. Hawke wasn't _cruel_.

"You... said you wanted me to come with you to that thing in Hightown tonight. I thought..." Isabela was suddenly grateful her skin didn't show the burning sensation she felt from the neck up. "Never mind."

Hawke's eyes widened with realisation and she reached out, grabbing at Isabela's hand and tugging her closer. Hawke had small hands, soft and pale; at ends with Isabela's dark and callused ones, long and nimble fingers that handled daggers and ships and people with ease. "You know that thing where I say words and they sound so much better in my head? It's a real problem. What I meant was... I invited you. Not you on your best behaviour, trying to impress the nobles."

"I'm not trying to impress _them_ ," Isabela said with a slight frown. (She tried hard not to frown these days. The line in her brow _had_ been a wrinkle, and she wasn't eager for it to get company.)

Hawke tilted her head to one side. "You don't need to impress me either. We've each seen each other at our worst, I think, and neither of us went running to the hills."

Hawke had tactfully not mentioned that Isabela _had_ gone running for the seas, but that didn't make it any less true.

"Maybe I'm dressing like this for me," she said. "It's not all about you, you know."

Isabela knew she was being unkind, and Hawke probably knew it too. She took it with good grace. "If you're happy, then it's fine. It's just..." She hesitated, then hooked her arm through Isabela's, leading her to the mirror. "It doesn't really look like you."

Isabela could see her point. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been quite so covered up. "Maybe I could make a few changes. Here and there. Show a bit more cleavage."

"Maybe raise the hem a little?" Hawke suggested innocently, and Isabela smirked, ignoring the way it made the wrinkle in her brow deepen.

"It's all about sex with you, isn't it?"

"Of course not! I also want to scandalise some nobles that get faint at the sight of exposed ankles."

"I knew I liked you for a reason."


	25. It was a very good year

He was a fool. He deserved his fate - it wasn't like she was under any illusion that he'd let Alistair make the killing blow, not after putting him on the throne.

She should have been able to shrug, tell him, "Do as you will," and flee into the night. Maybe on occasion, she'd look back fondly on a man who'd proved so _stupid_ in the end. Maybe she'd never think of him again.

But she couldn't, and maddeningly all she _could_ manage was the thought that Flemeth would be laughing at her right now; vulnerable and weak like the child that cried over a smashed mirror.

"Why are you being such an idiot?" she asked, because her feet wouldn't lead her away from his room. She had good boots, solid and clunky ones that can carry (and _have_ carried) her for many miles, through swamp and snow and the carved stone of the Deep Roads. They could at least take her outside of Redcliffe. "You've never turned me away previously. Why would you do so now, when so much is at stake? Do you not trust me?"

He wouldn't look at her, his back slumped against the wall and face in his hands. It was pitiful. She knew he was far stronger than this. "I don't trust Flemeth. You told me this was her idea."

"Flemeth is dead - by your hands, in case you have forgotten. Do you think I would be going through with this now if I had any doubts?"

His head lifted sharply, revealing a mockery of his usual grin. "Of course you would. Unless I'm very much mistaken, you don't want to see me dead."

"Do you _want_ to die?" She raised a hand towards him, lightning crackling between her fingers. "I daresay I can make it far more painless than having your _soul_ \--"

"Can we not?" he said, sounding defeated and weak and this was _not_ how it was supposed to go. She glared at him, pretending it didn't soften when he gave her a weak smile. "This wasn't how I wanted our last night together to go. Can we just... pretend it isn't?"

A stupid part of her, far larger than it had any right to be, wanted to accept, lay with him one last time and have one last, untarnished memory.

She quashed it. She had not gotten as far as she had by giving in to indulgent wants. "If you will not give me this, I will not give you that." It was a last ditch effort, but she pressed on, "But if you agree to my demands..."

His hand twitched, but he shook his head. "I cannot."

"Well then." The words tore at her throat. "We have nothing more to discuss."

Her boots had never felt quite so heavy.

"Morrigan?"

She raised her head in acknowledgement, but did not turn around to face him.

"It was... good, wasn't it? Our time together, it was worth it?"

Her nails dug so sharply into her palms they felt more like talons. The pain was welcome, though. It served as a distraction.

"It was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of had the realisation that I need to write about the female characters more often. It's all very well me going "Oh, I _love_ Isabela and Aveline and Merrill and Leliana are so sweet and Morrigan's so _fierce_ ," but then I go off to write lots of words (uh, relatively, at least) about dudes doing dudes with occasional interludes featuring mainly dudes.
> 
> (Dudes.)


	26. Wiggle whilst applying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I, uh, actually have no clue where this came from. Modern AU?

“Come no closer.”

Merrill could never really understand why Isabela ignored Aveline when she used that tone of voice. Whenever Merrill heard it she was put strongly in mind of Marethari, which caused some instinctive part of her brain to listen and _obey_.

Isabela had never really met Marethari, so maybe that was it.

“Come on, it'll make your eyes look really good!”

“I'm serious; stay away.”

Taking no heed, Isabela advanced on Aveline, arm outstretched.

“I'm warning you!” she said grimly. Isabela just laughed her off, reaffirming Merrill's long held belief that Isabela was utterly fearless. (Or had possibly been pregaming a little too hard. One or the other.)

Left with no other option and Isabela less than a foot away, Aveline grabbed at her arm and held it firmly in place. (Aveline was strong. Merrill had always been a little jealous of that. Aveline's arms were defined and muscular; her arms put one in mind of rather stringy, wet noodles.)

“It's just mascara,” Isabela protested, struggling futilely against the death grip around her wrist. “You don't need to act like I've gone and pulled a bloody knife on you.”

“I'm not letting _you_ put that anywhere near me,” said Aveline. That _voice_. Marethari's accent was completely different; her voice more lilting and gentle, but they both took on that terrifyingly steely quality when they wanted you to listen. (It also made Merrill want to curl up and bury her face in a book, but that was seldom what Marethari wanted her to do.) “And I don't see why I should take advice on make-up from _you_.”

Merrill frowned. That wasn't really fair. She liked Isabela's style – though admittedly she couldn't pull it off herself. (Any and all attempts to do so had ended in her resembling a slightly pathetic panda. It was a lot of look, and Merrill had soon figured out she was more suited to the _little_ of look side of things.)

Isabela sighed theatrically. (Another aspect of Isabela Merrill couldn't help but be envious of. Whenever she tried to do that, she sounded as if she had some kind of severe respiratory problem.) “Because otherwise you're going to go out looking like my grandmother, and she's been dead for about twenty years. May she rest in peace and all that.”

Aveline coloured brilliantly. “I'm – I don't... what's it to you, anyway?”

“Because I'm hoping that if you finally get your Jory shanked you'll stop getting so pissy when I leave the dishes in the sink.”

“I've told you, when you do that–”

“The food sticks to it, I've _know_.”

Merrill hummed quietly to herself. She'd been guilty of leaving dishes in the sink before, and it had not escaped her notice that Aveline probably thought Isabela responsible. It was not something she was quite prepared to come clean (so to speak) about.

“Anyway,” Aveline continued, her cheeks still flushed, “what makes you think I... that I'm...”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “Well look at you! Look at this!” With her free arm, she tugged at the sleeve of Aveline's pristine shirt. “You normally slob out like everyone else when we go to the Hanged Man, which means you're trying to impress someone.”

“ _You_ don't slob out,” Merrill pointed out, before her brain could interrupt with a warning to not get involved. “You always dress up when we go out.”

Isabela grinned and affected a little twirl – or at least, as much of one as she could manage with one arm still firmly attached to Aveline's hand. “That's because I'm always on the pull, Kitten. Which is what makes this,” she tugged again on Aveline's sleeve, only to have the hand slapped away, “particularly intriguing. Is that new, Aveline? I don't think I've tried to borrow it before.”

Aveline's expression soured. There had certainly been enough rows before about _that_ \- apparently whenever Isabela borrowed Aveline's tops (usually without permission) she stretched them out. “So what if it is? That doesn't mean I'm trying to... that I'm...”

“Aw, you're so cute when you're nervous. Your face turns nearly as red as your hair.”

“Shut up.”

“No really, I–”

“No really, _shut up_.”

Merrill sighed – but did so on the inside. A lot of Aveline and Isabela's arguments went this way; Aveline would storm off in a huff, Isabela would laugh, and then they'd be very unpleasant to each other for the next couple of days. (Merrill would usually have to play mediator, with a great deal of “Well, you go and tell Aveline that...” throughout. She _hated_ playing mediator.) Then, as if by some mysterious and powerful force of nature, they'd act as if nothing had happened and be downright friendly to one another.

Sometimes, sharing a flat wasn't a lot like it was on TV. Other times, it absolutely was.

Really, all she'd wanted for this evening was to make some more headway with her book and then go out and get drunk off of a pint and a half of beer. Things tended not to go Merrill's way, however, so she supposed she shouldn't have been surprised.

Isabela tapped her chin in a thoughtful motion. “Now, who are you trying to impress... I don't think it could be any of our lot, unless...” She raised an eyebrow. “You're not interested in Fenris, are you?”

“No!”

“Good,” said Isabela, “I was planning on sleeping with him tonight.” Merrill really hoped she'd be going to Fenris' place. Merrill's room was adjacent to Isabela's, and she'd hoped to get a good night's sleep that night. Also, Fenris didn't really like her, so it seemed slightly rude listening in on him having sex, even if she'd had no say in the matter. “Let's see... Sad Sack Poet?”

“Is _anyone_ interested in him?”

“No, I guess that's kind of the point. Norah?”

“ _Isabela_.”

“Yes, her voice is a bit grating. Well then, who could you...” Isabela's face suddenly lit up, and Merrill found herself leaning just a little bit closer towards her – though not so close as to be caught in the ensuing Aveline-shaped blast. “Oh! I should have guessed. You're sweet on the new bouncer, aren't you?”

“He's got very pretty eyes,” Merrill interjected, in a feeble attempt to defuse the situation. Varric was better at it than her, though he usually just sat back and watched in amusement; feet propped up on a table so filthy it didn't really make a difference.

“Pretty eyes,” Isabela agreed, “and I bet he looks really good naked.”

Aveline glared at her.

“Want me to sleep with him to find out?” asked Isabela innocently. (Merrill scooted a little further away from her. Aveline usually had good aim, but Merrill didn't want to be nearby if that ever changed.)

“You do, and I swear, I will _end you_.”

“Easy, big girl. I didn't say I would.” She inspected Aveline for a moment. “Might be best you introduce yourself to him _before_ you start marking your territory, though. Otherwise it comes off as a bit desperate.”

Aveline's face was still a vivid shade of pink, but her eyes dropped downwards and she relinquished her grip on Isabela's arm. Merrill let out a breath she didn't notice she'd been holding, because she wasn't really in the mood for delivering passive-aggressive post-it notes between them for the next few days.

“So, mascara?” Isabela waved the wand around, the tip veering dangerously close to Aveline's hair.

“No.” Aveline lifted her head defiantly, in the way that made Merrill want to burst into applause and she wasn't quite sure why. “He'll have to take me as I am, or not at all.”

Merrill gave a quiet cough, while Isabela's grin had taken on a quality Varric would probably describe as 'shit-eating.'

“Not like that, you ass.”

Isabela shrugged, and chucked the mascara wind over her shoulder. (Merrill, in the single most coordinated move of her life, managed to catch it before it could streak waterproof black stripes across the floor. Neither Isabela or Aveline seemed to notice.) “Good for you. And your make-up isn't that bad – my grandmother could pick up any man she liked. Er, before she died, I mean.”

“Thanks for the clarification,” Aveline said drily, but Merrill caught her glimpsing at the mirror (with the specks of grime that they all kept promising they'd clean off) and looking slightly happier about it.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I even drew an accompanying picture! ~~please pretend Aveline's hand doesn't exist I was just sick of looking at it sob~~ Sometimes I theorise that if I'd actually dedicated to myself to art or writing, I'd actually be good at one of the two by this point.
> 
> (The full thing is actually huge. For scale, [this](http://pics.livejournal.com/appleschnapple/pic/00002hd7) is Merrill's head.)


	27. Magical Magpie

Surana, like most mages, happened to like things. Things were good, sometimes useful and occasionally shiny.

Surana particularly liked shiny.

In another life, perhaps, he'd have been a wealthy merchant, glittering in jewels from ear to ear, fingers bedecked in so many rings it was long past the point of practicality. (Even if it was substantially more likely he'd be just another elf slumming it in an alienage – born in poverty, die in poverty, do some things of little import in between. He'd been taken from his alienage at such a young age that he remembered little to nothing about it, but he suspected there had been fleas. It was the little touches that made one appreciate the Circle.)

In this life, however, he was stuck as a mage with a tragically limited supply of shiny things, so he made do the best he could. If that meant occasionally rummaging through other people's trunks – well, so be it. Share and share alike, and all that, and really, they should have done a better job protecting their things if they wanted them. (Surana had no fewer than four glyphs surrounding his, and was _reasonably_ sure that he could dispel them next time he wanted to fish something out.)

Plus, it wasn't as though he needed to go rummaging through people's things – everyone seemed to have a habit of leaving their things lying around for everyone's taking, and who knew what sort of terrible things other people might try and do with them? He was practically doing a public service. He collected the random bits and pieces people wouldn't miss, like potions and runes and envelopes with ' _For Your Eyes Only_ ' scrawled above the wax seal. He also picked up a few bits that it was possible someone might miss _eventually_ , like; say, Irving's cowl (which was so hideous even Surana had his doubts about taking it) and a book he'd picked up years ago that had been absolutely vital in his education. (It was illustrated – and that had nearly been enough to put him off for life – but he'd discovered with some relief that the illustrations were greatly exaggerated and done by someone with little knowledge of female anatomy.)

(He'd been a great deal less enthused about the book when he'd come across a considerably more dog-eared one in Jowan's possession, complete with smudged ink and annotations scribbled along the margins. Surana had promptly burned it for the greater good.)

Perhaps it was some deep, subconscious recognition that material things were all he'd ever have, perhaps it was him preparing for some grand and wild adventure _just in case_ , maybe he really was that shallow. All Surana knew was that he liked things, and liked to hang onto them, which was why he stiffened and began to listen intently when he heard the words, “Ugh! That thief's been at it again.”

Her friend made a noise of disgust and said, “Again? That's got to be the third time something's been taken this week. I don't know why nothing's been done about them yet.”

“They can't get away with it forever,” said the first apprentice with a sniff. “Did you hear the fuss Senior Enchanter Wynne made when they stole her amulet? I'm surprised she hasn't lined us all up and started interrogating everyone.”

“That's assuming it's a mage,” said the second conspiratorially, “ _I_ think it's a templar snooping around the place. They get practically a free run of the tower at night, and no-one tells them where to go.”

Surana frowned. He certainly didn't want a templar taking his things.

He should probably put another glyph on his chest, just to be on the safe side.

\--- 

In addition to Surana's fondness of things, there was his _fondness of things_ , which he conceded was probably a little out of the ordinary. Whenever he found something really, really exciting – like, for example... a hat that he didn't want to set on fire, explode, or otherwise destroy for the good of all Thedas, he just wanted to share his excitement with the world.

The younger, reasonably attractive parts of it, at least.

His latest success – a rather charming amulet with an engraved silver fox – had resulted in him dragging off the nearest willing body into a conveniently placed wardrobe, and it wasn't until he paused for a moment (in order to push away a set of robes someone had rudely left in there) that he noticed who it was. “Oh, it's you.” He could have done considerably worse.

“Hello to you too,” Anders said mildly, their noses inches apart. “Now, if you wouldn't mind...”

Anders was a few years his senior – Surana hovering at the inexorably awkward age that was seventeen – and had steadfastly ignored him until now, in spite of the fact that Surana was so terribly pretty. (At least, according to an apprentice with a fondness for hats with kitten ears. Surana wasn't sure how seriously he should take the words of someone like that.) Whatever had possessed Anders (poor choice of words; really, truly _awful_ choice of words) to suddenly consider him worthwhile and kiss him so _fantastically_ , Surana didn't really care. (Unless it was a demon, in which case that was a little awkward.)

Against his better judgement (and the fact that Anders was doing amazing things with his tongue than Surana didn't want him to stop doing ever; save maybe to eat and drink and such), he pulled away and asked, “You're not possessed, are you?”

Anders stared at him.

“Right. Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

The kissing recommenced, though Surana suspected it was just a little bit less passionate than before. His personality had a tendency of making that happen. And just when he was getting really into it; Anders suddenly made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cheer.

Now, Surana didn't do this nearly as often as some of the others, but he hadn't yet heard that – at the very least, not right in the middle of things.

Anders broke off, and dangled something in front of Surana's face.

(It was less dirty and thus less exciting than it had any right to be.)

It was, in fact, the very amulet Surana had been so excited about in the first place.

“Aha,” Anders said proudly, “got you. Irving's prize pupil; the thief. For _shame_.”

Surana tried to protest, but all he could manage was, “Ngh.”

“Now, because you're young and innocent and a surprisingly good kisser, I'll let this go for now. But,” said Anders, wagging a finger in front of Surana's face, “I happen to be very attached to my trinkets. Hands off.”

And, ignoring Surana's noise of mixed outrage and disbelief, he stepped out of the wardrobe and wandered away, humming an off-key little tune.

\--- 

Surana had thought that was more or less the end of it. It _ought_ to have been the end of it, but those sorts of things had a way of dragging out to their unfortunate conclusion.

In this case, the unfortunate conclusion was an almost completely empty chest, the wards he'd put in place made utterly ineffectual. All that remained was a note, which read: _Sorry about this, needed supplies for escape attempt number seven. Wish me luck! -A._

Surana read the note three times more, as if willing the words to change to something like, _Your things are in that cupboard over there, safe and sound. Also you are very handsome. And talented. No-one can incinerate things quite like you._ They did not.

That night, Surana was called for his Harrowing, and passed with ease. (The fact that he was angry at the world probably helped.)

The next day, Jowan would do something very stupid and make Surana want to wring his neck.

The next year Surana would spend raiding every chest, wardrobe, box and heap of straw in Ferelden, hoarding his treasures gleefully (and occasionally giving his travelling companions the pieces that they stared at longingly). He also impregnated a witch so she could give birth to a reincarnated Old God after he killed an Archdemon, but that was seemingly less important.

And a few months after that, he would come across a handsome and charming apostate surrounded by the bodies of templars and darkspawn, claiming ignorance of the former. Surana would cheerfully (and without the slightest hint of hesitation) punch him in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to have to stop tagging stuff, lest the header for this take over the world or something equally dramatic. ~~I would drown us both in tags to keep you safe, dear reader.~~


	28. For best results, serve naked

He shouldn't stare. Staring was rude, and his mother had gone to great lengths to instil good manners in him, despite being frequently presented with evidence that this was nigh on impossible. (It was normally Carver's fault, though. Carver would say something decidedly _Carver-ish_ and Hawke would be left with no choice but to grab him in a headlock until he squealed. It was just common sense. Mother usually didn't see it like that.)

So yes, he shouldn't stare, and Mother would probably be infinitely disappointed if in him if he did. He could hear her now: “Oh, Garrett!” while she somehow managed to throw her hands up despairingly with her voice. (She was so talented like that.)

The thing was, Mother wasn't here – and good thing too; he wasn't about to take his Mother along Sundermount, even if their latest trip had been a great deal quieter than usual. (Even the spiders had hissed less loudly. Hawke appreciated that, even if he'd still let out an embarrassing shriek when they fell down from the ceiling of the cave.)

Mother simply could not appreciate how sorely tempting staring was, because Mother wasn't standing naked (oh Maker no _images_ ) next to an equally naked Anders in a deep stream that wasn't exactly limpid but nevertheless very effective at making them less filthy than they already were.

And Anders was naked.

And about a foot away from him.

And Hawke approved.

He didn't know quite what he'd been expecting; Anders' hideous-beyond-belief coat could have concealed practically anything. He should probably have been relieved to discover that the man actually had a torso, and his arms and legs weren't floating in some kind of bizarre oblivion within the recesses of the coat. If he were to have hazarded a guess, he'd probably have gone for the body type of choice amongst most of Darktown's inhabitants – skinny, and without a great deal of anything else.

He'd got the skinny part right, at least, but _pleasantly_ so. Lean, perhaps. Or wiry. Wiry worked well – it encompassed the peculiar strength Anders held in his frame, slight muscle definition that was somehow more pleasing to the eye then seeing every muscle in perfect detail.

Hawke swallowed, and was quite glad the water was murky. Best to avoid awkward lines of questioning where you could.

What was possibly most appealing was how different Anders' body was to his own. Hawke was thick and bulky and _solid_ , earned from years of swinging around a huge sword (and obviously it didn't _mean_ anything, but his was larger than Fenris'). Hawke's arm was probably thicker than Anders' thigh – not that he was looking, or anything. Because that would involve looking at _other things_ , and there wasn't really the sort of privacy here he needed for taking care of such matters.

He wondered what it'd be like to have Anders under him – no, better, on top of him, Anders pressing him down with surprising strength while his muscles would stretch and contract and Hawke would...

“Hawke? Are you all right?”

...Turn the sort of colour a boiled lobster would be proud of. Noblewomen would point at him on the streets of Hightown and go, “Yes serah, I want my dress to be the exact shade of red as that silly looking man over there.”

“Fine,” he said quickly, stepping out of the stream and making sure he had his back to Anders. He hadn't exactly _washed_ , probably closer to a dip, but lingering smudges of dirt were preferable to staying in there a moment longer and discovering what other interesting colours he could turn.

He was a terrible person, he decided. Anders had said only that day: “You've been a good friend. Better than I deserve,” and Hawke had just gone and ogled him in a distinctly non-platonic way while he was innocently bathing.

Maker only knew what Anders would say if he found out.

\--- 

Fenris wasn't looking.

His eyes may have drifted a couple of times perhaps, but that was to be expected. He couldn't keep his eyes straight ahead the entire time.

He was _not_ looking.

He had not noticed how different Anders' body was to the Tevinter magisters, whose bodies either grew fat from being waited on hand and foot or spindly and weak as they dedicated more and more of their time to their rituals in their never-ending quest for power. Danarius had grown frail over the years, but deceptively so – bodies withered with time, while magic only grew stronger.

Anders _used_ his body in addition to his magic; that much was clear. It made sense, he supposed – Anders probably exerted himself close to as much as the rest of them. It was just easier to think of him as looking like every other mage Fenris had known.

He wasn't looking, but if he was he may have noticed the scars that curled and scored their way across Anders' skin. Some were thin, pale streaks, while others were thick and corded.

Fenris frowned. Injuries healed by magic did not leave scars like that. He knew from experience – Danarius may have had Fenris fight for him and be hurt for him, but at the end of each battle he'd lead Fenris away to the nearest healer. There would be an exchange of coins, and the wounds would seal themselves and fade until they were barely visible.

It wasn't out of concern for his well-being, of course. Danarius just didn't want his lyrium design to be ruined. Fenris, like every single one of Danarius' possessions, had to be just _so_. It gave him a twisted sense of pleasure every time he acquired a new scar; each one a symbol that Danarius no longer had control over him.

He looked away sharply, eyes pointed downwards. Then slowly, treacherously, they drifted back, taking in every last detail that he didn't wish to see.

Hair stretched across the mage's arms and chest – neither as dark as Hawke's or as thick as Varric's, but still far different to Fenris' own bare skin. His eyes travelled downwards, watching the hair turn dark and curled as it led towards...

Fenris' breath hitched, and he turned away.

He had _not_ been looking.

\--- 

Varric raised an eyebrow. He had no qualms about appreciating bodies when they were in front of him, and had been pleasantly surprised to discover Blondie's was very much worth appreciating. (At least insofar as Varric _could_ appreciate – being born as fiendishly handsome as he was meant he tended to have particularly high standards.)

He also had no qualms about showing his appreciation, and gave Anders a friendly slap on the ass as he went past. That was pretty nice too, firm and shapely. Maybe Justice toned it from all the clenching he did.

“Looking good, Blondie.”

Anders blinked, expression momentarily indiscernible before cracking into a smile. “Thanks.”

Behind Anders, Hawke was banging his head against a tree.


	29. Chapter 29

It was raining. Not proper Fereldan rain, where the sky became a shade of grey only slightly more murky than usual and regardless of how much time you spent out in it you'd end up soaked to the bone and most likely splattered with mud, but _Kirkwall_ rain.

Kirkwall rain, like Kirkwall everything, just wasn't as good as its Fereldan counterpart. The rain was light, and the air heavy and humid and completely unappealing to be out in. So Hawke had settled on laying down on the floor, and watch the rain patter against the windows and cast spotted shadows across his skin.

He couldn't mess that up, at the very least. Surprising, really, considering everything else he'd managed to ruin. Maybe he just wasn't trying hard enough. Maybe if he stayed there long enough, the rain would start rising upwards instead.

He snorted quietly to himself. It hadn't been funny, but he'd been sitting (lying, more accurately) in silence for too long – Bodahn having spotted the signs that he was one of his little _moods_ and not to be disturbed – and anything to break it was welcome. The floor wasn't comfortable, and the rain was doing little for his mood, but somehow the effort of getting up again seemed impossibly huge.

Maybe he'd stay there forever, let his beard grow long and grey and slowly waste away into nothing. The Champion of Kirkwall; who went funny in the head shortly after and everyone was faintly embarrassed about. At least Varric would hopefully be able to spin him into some tragic figure, rather than the useless lump who sat around feeling sorry for himself. Maybe he'd get a heroic death, the one damn time where he'd manage to save more than he lost.

He heard the front door click open, but didn't turn his head. It wasn't necessary; he'd never _not_ recognise that light tap-tap of footsteps, the ones drawing closer towards him until they finally came to a halt a scant couple of feet away.

“Hello,” he said, still staring up at the window and watching a pair of raindrops race each other to the bottom. It looked like the one on the right would come first.

“Meredith's ordered the mages to be executed.” Anders' voice was curt and cold, and exactly what Hawke didn't need right now. “Except for the youngest. She's being made tranquil.”

“They were blood mages, Anders.” And Anders didn't like blood mages, except when he did, and it was all very confusing. Or perhaps Hawke was just stupid like that. It was a distinct possibility.

“Did they even have a choice?” Anders asked bitterly. Hawke hoped it was supposed to be rhetorical.

More silence. He supposed it wasn't, then.

“You don't have that sort of camaraderie with Merrill,” he said. He heard Anders' sharp intake of breath. He'd said the wrong thing. Of course he had.

“That's different. Merrill already has the kind of freedom these mages can only dream of, and she wastes all of it on that cursed mirror.”

“Not all of it. Some of it she wastes down at the Hanged Man.”

“Is this - _look at me_ ,” Hawke tilted his head slightly to catch Anders out of the corner of his eye, just enough to see Anders' nostrils flare the way they always did when he was angry, “is this some kind of joke to you? Something to play at in your free time, while all the while mages are having to endure the kinds of abuses you can't even imagine?”

Hawke's throat tightened as he forced out, “Of course not.”

“Then _why_ ,” the word was sharp, crisp, the sort of tone Anders directed at Fenris or Sebastian when he was being particularly cutting, “aren't you doing anything? You have all this power, all this influence, and you're letting it go to waste while Meredith grinds the city beneath her heel. This could have been your father, your _sister_...”

Except it wasn't, because Bethany had been dragged off to the Wardens after he'd nearly gotten her killed, and had made it quite apparent she'd have rather he just let her die. Dear little Bethany, who was bitter and angry at an imperfect world and it was all his fault and he didn't realise he was crying until he heard Anders' hesitant, “Love?”

“I'm fine,” he tried to say, only the words couldn't come out and all he could manage was a sort of wheezing splutter, and another, desperate, shaky inhales of breath that rocked and ached his chest. He sat upright, but it provided only slight relief and he couldn't _stop_ now, aware of hot tears streaming down his face and too much spit in his mouth that he couldn't swallow down, and Anders' hand on his back but that just made it _worse_. He wasn't good enough for anyone, couldn't _save_ anyone, his clumsy hands and words only ever good for breaking and destroying.

He quit fighting, and gave in to another wave of sobs. He probably looked hideous right now – streaming nose and red faced like a screaming newborn – and wasn't that appropriate, the outside finally matching the inside, where nothing had been quite right ever since Carver had died and Mother had said, “This is all your fault.” He'd never begrudged her it because she'd been hurt and she'd been grieving and most importantly, she'd been right. His fault, his _fault_ for being too slow or too selfish or too damn stupid to see what was right in front of his eyes.

He gagged, swallowing down a mouthful of bile threatening to rise up. Anders' hand was rubbing slow circles now, accompanied by quiet, soft noises without need for words. “I'm sorry,” he said at last, between gasps for air. “So sorry. I can't. Sorry. Please.” Another breath, pulling at his aching chest. “Not good enough.”

A pause, and then Anders fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around him, tight enough to be almost painful but Hawke too tired and too in need of comfort to pull away. “That's not something I ever want to hear you say again. Ever.”

Hawke gave a snort that was more like a sniff. “True though.”

“Not even remotely.” He inched closer, and pressed what was probably the chastest kiss they'd ever shared against Hawke's lips. “I told you that you were the one bright light in Kirkwall. I meant that. I still mean it.”

Another snort, this time blending into a hiccough. “Can't keep anyone safe. Can't make anyone happy. Kirkwall needs a new light, this one's pretty dim.”

“Love,” Anders said, a little desperately. A dark, niggling voice at the back of Hawke's head murmured, _He knows you're right. He knows he can do better_. “I don't know... what do you need, Hawke? What can I do to fix this?”

Always a healer, trying to repair what everyone else would have recognised as long broken. Hawke hesitated, if only for a moment. But really – no, there was nothing else left for him. Only this. “Stay with me. Don't leave.”

Anders laughed shakily. “For as long as you'll have me, love. You know that.”

“ _Promise_.”

“I promise.” Anders got to his feet, wincing slightly as his knee gave a protesting crack. “Come on. Bed. We'll lock the door, and it'll be just you and me and the dog when it inevitably breaks the door down.”

One last snort, finally sounding something close to normal. “He does like to do that, doesn't he?”

“He's just ridiculous that way,” Anders said, though not without fondness. “Come on, I think Orana's prepared the bed warmer.”

And maybe things were far from perfect and not something a few loving words could fix, but for some reason the prospect of a warm bed just made the world the same at least a little bit better. “Can we just stay in there forever?”

Anders' laugh was light and untainted by bitterness, and it had been far too long since Hawke had heard him laugh like that. “Forever's a long time. How about all day tomorrow?”

Hawke managed a smile of his own. A small one, but it was a start. “That's a reasonable compromise. Anyway, if I stayed in bed longer than a week Aveline would probably barge in and drag me out herself.” And not even strain herself doing it. Such an impressive woman.

“She cares about you. We all do. Don't forget that.”

Hawke's eyes drifted back to the window, the droplets of water still streaming down but illuminated by a rich, red glow as the sun broke through just in time to disappear once more. “It isn't that easy though, is it? You can't just tell yourself you're good enough and believe it.”

Fingers entwined with his own, Anders' long, elegant fingers curled around his thick and clumsy ones. “Then I'll just have to tell you until you finally do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lack of sleep + bad mood = high quality writing ofc.


	30. Almost Serendipitous

Serendipity is mostly happy, most of the time. Which is about as much as anyone can ask for, and far more than an elf is supposed to. (Sometimes this isn't quite what the customer wants, and they ask her to look more downtrodden, more _fragile_ , and then she quite cheerfully shows them the door.)

She has a hot bath most mornings – provided she gets up early enough; Jethann's happy to spend so long in there the water's lukewarm by the time he gets out – and rubs her skin down with scented oils until every inch of her's smooth to the touch.

Then she gets dressed, and while her dresses aren't the prettiest or the most expensive – some of the Rose's other employees are happy to pour their wages into the pockets of Hightown merchants; Serendipity prefers to save – they're nevertheless lovely enough. She tweaks them – tighter here, looser here – until she can stand in front of a mirror and be happy with what she sees. Some days are better than others, and some days she stares at her reflection and wants nothing more than to shatter the mirror into tiny pieces.

And no matter how she feels, it's time for work.

She doesn't always like the Rose's clientele. Some treat her like some kind of curious oddity, something to try, just once. Irritating, but not so bad, and they at least put coin in her purse. Worse are the ones that stare at her from a distance and act like she's a joke, something to catch out anyone who's had too much to drink. Those ones she'd rather like to punch repeatedly in the face, but she's been informed that's bad for business, so instead she gives them a tight-lipped smile and walks away, an extra sway in her step just to annoy them.

But there are some she likes, the ones that smile at her rather than leer and sometimes slip a little extra coin onto her bedside table. The ones that ask about her day, even though her answer's always the same: _All the better for seeing you, sweetheart_. Sometimes it was even the truth, especially when she's been having a bad day and they tell her she's lovely, that she's beautiful.

And then there's Bran, who has a group all to himself. Snide, sarcastic Bran, who leaves gifts after every visit and only ever asks for her and doesn't even mind when she points out what a silly, silly man he is. Bran, who looks at her earnestly and invites her to a fancy party at _Chateau Haine_ , ignoring the fact that she's an elven prostitute and he's the sort of person that's supposed to look down his nose at her. She raises a dark brow, because if he's gone and lost his wits it's up to her to recollect them. He spots her hesitation and misunderstands – offers to buy her a new dress, new jewellery, whatever she'd like. She refuses. His face falls, and she sighs, and points out she didn't refuse his invitation.

(She also points out how silly he is, just in case he's forgotten. From the dopey smile he's now wearing, it's a distinct possibility.)

They spend the party talking about people behind their backs, insulting their choice in clothes – and Comte de Launcet's ridiculous moustache – and when it's all over, Bran takes her by the hand and she just can't find it in herself to pull away.

Instead, she laughs.


End file.
